5 comments

  1. Ke11y

    Life is just a…

    Circle of Love

    It happens imperceptibly, conversation slackening to silence. My mother works instinctively, bumpy hands with clacking needles, mind deep in thought. Remembering.

    Through the stage when forgetful is funny, till the rhythm of a relationship is interrupted, never to be the same. No longer to call at will upon intimacy.

    Lifelong companions, mother endures the absurdity of blossoming illness. The once surfeit of warmth, never staunched by sleep, has slipped, finally, into the icy chill of non-recognition.

    Through the window she watches the journey of the moon, sailing from behind ponderous cloud, shedding monochrome shadows over the Scottish hills and valleys. She lowers her head, clacking the needles while Brahms gentles her mind.

    My father sits in his favorite chair, staring into the yellow flickering flames, wearing the cardigan my mother knit for him last Christmas. As a war bride she has known loneliness, yet somehow this is worse, for she knows for certain he is never coming home.

    Disease spreads through him, like a hawk, picking him clean, leaving just the stone terrace face as a façade to his absence.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Wow. A courageous accounting of life’s movement through the poignancy of getting old (my recently deceased father-in-law would say “beats the alternative”). There are so many lines I love in this piece. I like the pacing. . . picturing the mother as she knits, perhaps in a rocking chair, perhaps not.I like the sensory detail of going from warmth to icy chill of non-recognition. And bringing in the presences of the moon. . . I see her head as she looks up from her knitting to ponder that faraway orb. And now audio sensory detail joins this lovely piece with the presence of Brahms. This is where I sigh deeply. . . completely satisfied with this scene and this perfect writing. And the final scene of father wearing the cardigan deftly made by mother and her bittersweet knowledge. And yes to the final line. . . Perfection in writing!

  2. Pat Tyler

    #9 Life is just a relentless war against the senior citizenry by the high-tech industry. For example, here’s a piece of my history that will drop your jaw in shock. I grew up in a home with one telephone. It was mounted on the wall in the hall and used by adults only, or children with rare permission. If my mother didn’t hear it ring – or was gone from home – ah, well – the party would call back later. Or not. Unanswered calls did not cause the world to end. In my quarter century marriage, I called my husband at his workplace once (to notify him of my mother’s death.) A non-emergency call to someone’s workplace was considered not only rude but unconscionable, not to mention a probable cause for termination. I know it’s hard to imagine such a world unless you were born into it. No TV. No computers. No cell phones. When people wanted to talk to you – up close and personal – they came to visit you – at your house! Sadly, when today’s youngsters grow up, they will never experience the phenomenon of solitude. They will never appreciate pleasurable, peaceful, respectful, restorative, enjoyable QUIET times. Times when they are actually able to think, work, plan, and dream without phones jingling and jangling their way into sensitive ear drums and irreplaceable brain cells. I suspect that national and world health will decrease as technology increases. What do you think? Don’t bother calling me with your answer. Drop a post card, if you haven’t forgotten how to write. Better yet, call AT&T, if you can get through to them on one of your myriad devices. I’m sure they’d be happy to take the call from your house, car, plane, train or rocket ship. Just don’t call me. I’ve lost my cell phone again and I can’t answer the wall phone because I’m too short to reach it. And my computer is out for repair again. Meanwhile, I’m wearing my earphones to block the sound of the wall phone and taking a nap. If there’s an emergency just call 911 on one of your mobile devices!

    1. mcullen Post author

      Omigosh, Pat. I’m laughing out loud. Or, as the youngsters would type, LOL. I LOVE your writing and LOVE having your presence and your humor here on The Write Spot Blog. You and your writing brighten my day. Thanks for posting!

  3. Ke11y

    Oh my heavens! How I laughed. I used to go to a coffee-shop for a cup of coffee, now it’s like entering a Boardroom! Pat, this piece was huge fun to read, and how I can relate! Are we really at this age?

    Life has become a series of daily questions: Why does arthritis attack the joints I care most about? I ask this sitting here with my double whiskey chaser, contemplating my future having just been fired from my job for a trivial matter—tea money fraud—and am now considering starting up on my own. I’m seventy, losing my hair, cultivating ways to extend my belly, and needing magnifying spectacles to read. My hobbies are playing air guitar—Money For Nothing—and butt kissing, which I’ve perfected since being twelve. I’m a man of little dreams, small victories and easily reachable goals. I know nothing about i-Pods, hard-drives, gigabytes, poppers or Angelina Jolie.

    I smile about three times a week and smoke Marlboro Lights. Not bad considering it took twenty-three years to get my wife off my back. Fortunately I had help. A speeding ambulance with flashing lights drove right over her. When the police car came I was standing there looking up at the heavens. I think the cop thought I’d been heartbreakingly cheated of my wife’s company. I was thinking: This is just brilliant, thank you Lord.

    I don’t miss boy bands, baggy blue jeans hanging round my knees, ice white trainers and sports T-shirts, nor have I been sober in years. Well maybe a few minutes at a time, mostly when I’m waiting in line to buy liquor. I could write a book, become an author. (Marlene told me I can call myself a writer!) You don’t have to be a genius to write a book, right? All the best authors frequent pubs. Maybe write a book on celebrated alcoholics. Or the effects of beer induced migraines. There’s no end to opportunities, right?

    I’m with you, Pat. I’m so with you.

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